


Until You're Mine Again

by wintersky (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Army, First Kiss, First Meetings, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Wartime Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wintersky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Most of his fellow soldiers keep pictures of their girls beneath their pillows.</em><br/><em>John Watson keeps a picture of Sherlock Holmes, a man he's met only once but who has changed his life completely.</em><br/> </p><p>John Watson, a military doctor, meets Sherlock Holmes the night before he's shipped out to Africa with his regiment.<br/>Sparks fly immediately for the two, and neither wants the night to end; but, sadly, it does, and John boards the boat the next morning with a heavy heart and dreams of what could have been.<br/>For months, they are apart, neither knowing if the other even remembers them, much less feels the same way- until the fateful day when John takes a bullet and everything changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, all rights go to the BBC; I'm just putting words in their characters' mouths!
> 
> I was quite literally inspired to write this while watching Captain America. (No, seriously).
> 
> Something about the army themes and the time period struck a chord with me, and as I so often do, I thought "This could be Johnlock!"
> 
> I've never done an AU fic before, but I thought I'd give it a go and I hope you like it. :)

**April 30, 1943.**  
 **8:16 p.m.**  
 **London**

It's the last night before Captain John Watson, MD ships out to Tunis with the British First Army.

This will be his second tour, and entirely by choice; he is going out because he wants to, and because there is nothing keeping him here in London, with his boring, solitary life and his boring, solitary flat.

Tonight, John is going for drinks with his fellow soldiers Major Greg Lestrade- a good friend of his; older than him, and returning, like John, for his second tour- and another man called Commander Kenneth Anderson, whom John has always been vaguely aware of but never particularly liked.

The three men are currently headed downtown to a place called the Diogenes Building, which is infamous in its strangeness.  
The first floor, called the Diogenes Club, is supposedly a place where old, fusty, important men go to sit and be quiet, and this has always struck John as extremely odd; he is perversely curious to see if it's true.

The basement level, however, is a whole other can of worms. It's a happening new nightclub (also called the Diogenes, strangely enough), that everyone who's anyone is going to- so, not John's sort of place at all.  
He is much more of a sit-at-home-and-read kind of man, but tonight he supposes he could use a good time; _if nothing else, it'll be nice to remember this when I'm homesick in Africa,_ he thinks sensibly.

Greg is driving- it's a car John has never seen before; important-looking, and when he asks where it's from, Greg stammers out a half-reply and waves dismissively. John thinks he hears the name "Holmes" tossed around, but can't be sure. 

Soon enough they arrive in an older part of downtown and pull up in front of an imposing brownstone that announces "The Diogenes Building" in ornate gold script. Greg hops out of the car and leads the way, holding open the mahogany-and-stained-glass door for John and Anderson. Just before they enter the lobby, Greg turns and puts a finger to his lips, widening his eyes as if to indicate that talking would be a very, very bad idea.  
With that, they enter, Greg, Anderson and then John, and John is immediately struck by the complete and utter lack of sound. The only thing to be heard in this room is an incredibly faint pulsing of noise coming from the back corner, where a set of stairs leads down to what must be the nightclub.  
The high-ceilinged, wood-panelled room is filled with plush, chintzy armchairs, which are in turn filled with plump, professor-looking men who are smoking cigars and reading the Times.

The heavy door clicks shut behind John, and six or seven of the old men in the room look up at the newcomers accusingly. Greg holds up a hand in apology and, motioning for the others to follow, hurries across the dimly lit space towards the stairs at the back.  
The staircase seems to go on for miles, and John finds himself huffing and puffing a little; _I need to get back in shape,_ he thinks wryly. _Plenty of time for that in the army._  
As they descend, the air thickens and the sounds of clinking glasses and silverware, lively chatter, and strains of music get louder.

When they finally step into the dark, crowded nightclub level, John is awed by the sheer number of people packed into the space.  
There's a large dance floor toward the back, which as far as John can see is completely full. Next to this is a bandstand, where a six-piece band is playing loud, jazzy music; up front, close to our party of three, is a long, sweeping bar in front of a mirrored wall.

The decor is modern and elegant- all mahogany and gold and glass; John is impressed. There's a seductive haze in the thick atmosphere- cigarette smoke and dim golden light and a thousand different perfumes. The very air feels important; it's the kind of air that brings mystery and wonder to those who breathe it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the Diogenes Club building looks loads different in the show but this is how I pictured it while reading the ACD novels. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Greg claps his hands and says over the din, "Right, I promised a friend of mine- the bartender, actually- that I'd introduce him to you; he doesn't get out much so I thought that'd be nice."

John shrugs and calls back "Sure, mate, that's fine," and Greg gives him a thumbs-up.

He proceeds to lead them through the dense crowd to a high table near the back of the club. It has four stools and is almost equidistant to the dance floor and the bar- prime real estate.

John and Anderson take seats opposite one another. Greg remains standing and says jovially "So, what'll you boys be drinking tonight? It's our last night in jolly old London-town; I've got the tab."

John cracks a smile and says "Ah...gin fizz for me, please," and Anderson says snidely "Tom Collins with brandy."

"Right-o," Greg nods. "I'll just be a mo'."

And with that, he turns in the direction of the bar and pushes his way though the crowd. John watches him go and sighs inwardly; the prospect of being alone with Anderson without the funny and personable Greg as a buffer is not a pleasant one.

The two men sit in silence for a moment. After a time, John begins to feel awkward and drums his hands on the table, saying "So, you got a girl, then?"

Anderson grunts. "Yeah. 'Er name's Sally. Donovan. She works 'ere," he says, looking around half-heartedly before lapsing back into a stony silence.

John sighs again; _this is going to be a very, very long night,_ he thinks, looking longingly towards the stairs.  
He's not at all one for dancing, but he likes Greg and it's their last night in London, so he didn't refuse the invitation tonight.

John looks around, taking in his surroundings. The room is packed to the gills, mostly with young couples; soldiers and their girls, as far as John can tell.

He suddenly feels old; at thirty-one, he knows he's hardly getting on in years, but seeing all these fresh-faced twenty-somethings with their pretty young ladies is getting him down.

John, himself, doesn't have a girl- he's not even sure he's interested in girls, to be honest. Sure, he's had relationships and hooked up with girls, mostly when he was at college, but never found them as appealing as the few _boys_ he'd hooked up with at college.

***

He is distracted now, though, by the appearance of Greg, with drinks and a tall, pale man in tow- his friend the barman, evidently.  
As he approaches the table, he places the gin fizz in front of John and the Tom Collins in front of Anderson, taking his own cocktail from his friend.

"Right, lads, this is my mate Sherlock Holmes. He tends bar here; makes the best damn cocktails this side of town, inn't that right, Sherlock?"

The tall man- Sherlock- sniffs, his cool pale eyes darting. "I suppose so," he drawls, sounding very, very bored.

 _He looks about as happy to be here as I am_ ,  John observes.

He can't help but notice how attractive the newcomer is- his dark hair curls just so over his blue, _no, green, no, gray_ eyes, and those cheekbones... _well, you could cut yourself on those cheekbones,_  John thinks appreciatively.

He stands and offers his hand. "Captain John Watson. Or Doctor, whichever suits your fancy," he smiles.

He is pleased when Holmes takes his hand and shakes firmly, his full lips curving up slightly in an elegant smile.

"Doctor Watson. Enchanté," he says in a smooth voice, his diction perfect in both English and French.

"Moi aussi, bien sur," replies John in excellent French, eliciting a surprised eyebrow-raise from the other man.

"Parlez-vous français, monsieur?" he inquires, looking intrigued.

John switches back to English, feeling bashful under the stares of Lestrade and Anderson. "Yeah, picked it up at school and on my first tour. Beautiful language, French..." He trails off.

"Indeed. My mother is French, so I've been speaking it all my life," Sherlock Holmes explains.

"I...I could tell," John stammers, suddenly embarrassed. He feels a blush spread over his cheeks as the strange man smiles at him.


	3. Chapter 3

"Well," says Greg, breaking the slight tension of the moment and looking like he's fighting back a smile, "whaddya say we go find us some girls who'll dance with a coupla old soldiers, boys?"

"I'll stay here, if you don't mind," says Sherlock cordially.

Anderson, to John's surprise, readily agrees, but John takes a quick glance at Sherlock, who is turned away from him, and politely refuses as well.

Greg raises an eyebrow, making John blush even harder; luckily, Sherlock doesn't notice.

"Alright. Have fun, you two," Greg smirks, taking off in the direction of the dance floor. (John didn't think he could blush any more, _but, well, you learn something new every day,_ he thinks sheepishly).  


"So, ah, Mr Holmes, was it-?"

"Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock, then. What do you do for a living?" John asks, feeling stupid as soon as the words are out of his mouth- _he's a bartender at this club, well done you_...but is surprised by Sherlock's reply; it's as if he's read his mind.

"I don't work here all the time. I just tend bar between cases."

"Cases?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

"A...what, sorry?" John has the feeling he should be impressed, but isn't quite sure why.

"Consulting detective. The only one in the world."

"What does that, ah, mean?" John asks, sure he's just making a bigger fool out of himself every time he opens his mouth, but Sherlock looks quite pleased to answer his question.

"It means whenever the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

John laughs. "Ah. Fair enough."

Sherlock smiles, and John is absurdly pleased.

***


	4. Chapter 4

**10:27 p.m. ******

As the evening progresses, John finds that he is enjoying himself immensely. Sherlock- whom he learns is a twenty-eight-year-old King's College dropout ("It was too boring")- is incredibly interesting to talk to, and obviously brilliant.

He explains that the primary aspect of his work as a consulting detective is performing deductions to solve crimes, which on the surface sounds fairly ordinary to John, but this assumption is quickly shattered when he demonstrates his skill. 

"You see that woman over there, John? In the pink dress and the mink stole, standing near the bandstand?" Sherlock asks, pointing. 

John looks; sure enough, there stands a blonde woman in a shocking-pink dress and a fur stole, smoking a cigarette. She is looking around nervously, and John sees a glint of gold on her left hand where the light hits her wedding ring. 

"Yes." 

"She is having an affair with the trombone player. They're meeting up later this evening, and he has a hotel room reserved; he doesn't know she's married. She's a chain-smoker and a serial adulterer and she works in the media; a struggling journalist, I'd say. And the mink stole is fake." 

Sherlock says this all very fast, letting out an exhale when he finishes and looking at John with an unreadable expression. 

"Well?" 

John is stunned. "That was...brilliant! Bloody amazing! You got all that just looking at her? My God, that's incredible!" 

Sherlock inclines his head slightly, and when John turns back to gaze incredulously at the woman again, he hides his face and lets a pleased smile slide over his lips. 

*** 

"So, what can you deduce about me?" John asks, after a moment of companionable silence.

Sherlock smiles; he's been waiting for this, and promptly launches straight into what he'd observed hours ago.

"You're going back overseas because you want to, not because you have to. The way you hold yourself is clearly military, and your haircut is a grown-out crew cut; therefore, this is your second tour, and entirely by choice- you're too old to be fresh out of the RCD."

John smiles. "That I am. What else?"

He leans forward eagerly in his seat, and Sherlock feels a twinge of pleasure- he does so love a captive audience, and rarely- _alright, never_ \- has one.

"You live with your brother; you don't like it, but the army paycheques can only stretch so far, and you can't afford to rent a flat on your own. You and your brother don't get along; he's tried to reach out to you, given you his wristwatch even- it's obviously not yours.

"It's expensive, but scratched up; been in the same pocket as keys and coins. You can't even afford a flatshare, so surely you wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this; it's clearly had a previous owner. 'H.W.'- a family member, I'd say a cousin, maybe, but no, you're a war hero who can't find a place to stay so it's unlikely that you have extended family. 

"A brother, then, whom you're not close to.

"He's tried to reach out to you, but it hasn't gone well. Maybe you like his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

Here John looks surprised, and for a moment it seems as if he's going to ask a question, but he says nothing, and Sherlock takes this as a sign to continue.

"How do I know about the drinking, you wonder? I don't _know_ , I _saw_.

"And what I saw was these-"

Sherlock takes John's wrist in his hand, flipping it over so the winding stem of his watch is facing upwards.  
John tries not to shiver at the light touch of the other man's fingers on the sensitive skin of his wrist.

Sherlock gestures to the array of scuff marks around the winding wheel with one fingernail.

"The owner tries to wind it up properly at night, but the key slips because his hands are shaking.  
You'll never see a sober man's watch with these, never see a drunk man's without them."

He sits back in his chair and puffs out his chest slightly, rather enjoying the look of awe on John's face.

John shakes his head.

"That was....amazing."

Sherlock's eyes glow with pride.

"You think so?"

"Of course. It was extraordinary. Simply extraordinary."

Sherlock sniffs, smiling slightly. "That's not what people normally say."

John frowns.

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off.'"

John chuckles, still shaking his head in disbelief, and the sound makes Sherlock happier than it should.

***


	5. Chapter 5

**11:13 p.m.**

Later on, after a few more drinks (Lestrade and Anderson are still dancing, as they've each found a pretty blonde and seem to have forgotten that they are both seeing other women- Greg is, in fact, married, although this has apparently slipped his mind), the conversation turns to relationships.

John discovers, to his delight, that the very, very handsome Sherlock Holmes is, in fact, not currently seeing anybody. He finds this out in an exchange that goes something like this:

"So, d'you have a girlfriend, then?"

 _Please say no, please say no,_ John hopes.

"No. Not really my....area."

_Yes!_

John's next question is _definitely_ not something asked in polite conversation. Most people would likely be quite offended (and probably slap him, he thinks), but he is feeling very, very bold tonight, and he can sense that Sherlock Holmes is _definitely_ not "most people".

"Alright....do you have a boyfriend, then?" John asks.  
"It's fine, by the way, if you do," he adds. He cocks an eyebrow, quirks up the corner of his mouth- _you're flirting, John, since when do you flirt? This is mad!_ John thinks wildly.

Sherlock doesn't reply immediately. Instead, in one fluid movement, he plucks a cigarette from the inside pocket of his jacket, lights it, and brings it to his lips, taking a drag and savouring it. John knows he's being dramatic and stalling on purpose.

Sherlock exhales with an "ahh," closing his eyes. He opens them languorously and looks at John head-on, sending a tingle down his spine. He finally opens his mouth.

"I know it's fine."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow too, mirroring John; his eyes are mysterious and his smile is inviting.

 _He's not offended! He's not horrified! He's not slapping you! He's flirting back, dammit! Well done!_ says a voice in John's head, and he mentally claps himself on the back. He's glad he asked; if it had been anyone else, John wouldn't have even dared consider it, but something about Sherlock, this beautiful enigma of a man, is bringing something out in him that he's never felt before.  
It's something bold, something exciting; adventurous, unfamiliar. John's still not sure what it is, but he thinks he likes it.

Sherlock speaks again.

"And you, Doctor Watson? Have you got a lady who'll be devastated to see you leave tomorrow morning?" he asks in that low, velvety voice, pulling John back to the dark, smoke-filled club.

"Wha- er, no." John trips over his reply, suddenly unsure of himself.

He coughs. "No, I haven't." 

Sherlock leans back, balances his cigarette between two long, elegant fingers and takes a sip of his martini, the barest hint of a satisfied smile on his lips. The glint in his eyes seems to say "Good."

John is fighting to hold back either an exuberant "YES!" or a lunge across the table into Sherlock's lap- he's not sure which, and decides to play it safe and stay where he is. He fidgets in his seat.

Sherlock's full lips are curved into a daring, almost cocky smile, and his eyes are smouldering; John can feel his cheeks heating under the intensity of his gaze.  
Something in his face is driving John wild- and clearly, Sherlock knows it.

And so, when Sherlock Holmes leans in close to him with a glint in his eye and purrs into his ear "Come back to my place?", there is nothing in John Watson that can refuse.

***


	6. Chapter 6

_**Earlier** _  
**221b Baker Street  
 **4:38 p.m.****

Friday night, April the thirtieth doesn't promise to be anything more for Sherlock Holmes than an ordinary shift at the bar and a too-late night spent smoking, thinking and being bored- _so bored, always bored..._ that is, until Greg Lestrade comes round to Sherlock's flat with a proposition.  
Sherlock is sprawled on the couch in his dressing gown, smoking his third cigarette in less than an hour and staring at the ceiling. He is scanning through his mental database of poisons- he knows that the gardener was responsible for the Leeds triple murder (no one noticed the earring), and he knows that it was poison; he just doesn't know _what_ poison yet, and the nicotine helps him think.

However, his thinking is interrupted by Lestrade's sharp rapping on the door and a call of "Oi, Sherlock, I know you're home! Get your arse out here, your shift starts in twenty minutes."  
Sherlock sits up and blinks, disgruntled, jolted from his thoughts- _blast it, I was so close._  
"Go away, Lestrade! You're not my mother," he calls, irritated.  
He turns onto his side with a "hmmph!" and begins to go over the sequence for a certain dioxide again- _C12, H4, Cl..._

He is disrupted again when Greg enters the building, pounds up the stairs and physically shakes him out of his trance.  
Sherlock is even more irritated now. "I said, _go away_."  
His voice is quiet and incredibly pissed off, but Greg knows him too well and isn't fazed.  
"Come on, ya big lug, tonight'll be fun. I ship out tomorrow, but I thought I'd introduce you to some of my friends tonight-"  
Sherlock sighs. "Tedious. Now, I'll thank you kindly to leave-"  
Greg puts up a hand, cutting him off.  
"Hold up there, old boy, I think you might just like one of them- Captain John Watson, MD." He raises an eyebrow and smiles broadly before continuing.  
"Good-looking bloke, our Johnny boy. Three Continents Watson, they call 'im."

Sherlock sighs again, dragging it out dramatically so that Greg can see exactly _how_ tired of this conversation he is.  
"No thank you, _Gregory_. I am content enough on my own."  
Greg winces at the sound of his full name- Sherlock knows he hates it- but says "Well, that's too bad, m'lad, because we're going out for one last night of fun before heading overseas, and we'll be at your club. You'll be meeting them there, whether you like it or not, and yes, you are going to work. Now, up!"  
And with this, he pulls the taller, younger man off the couch with surprising strength and ease, even when Sherlock tries valiantly to make himself as heavy and unresponsive as possible.

Sherlock groans. "I hate you, Gregory. I hate the club and I hate London and I hate your friends and I hate I hate I _hate_." 

He is in full-on petulant child mode now, but Greg knows how to handle his moods. He finds Sherlock a pair of black trousers, a matching jacket and a slightly rumpled deep-red dress shirt that he sniffs before handing over, just in case Sherlock's used it to mop up a spilled experiment or the like.  
"Get dressed, now, and come downstairs."  
Greg pauses.  
"Oh, ah, Sherlock? If you've still got your brother's car- which I know you have, so don't lie- can I borrow it? It's just so much _fun_ to drive, and I've got no petrol left- I blame Hitler."  
He winks, and without waiting for a response, calls "Thanks!", already halfway down the stairs. 

Sherlock scowls. He finds himself alone and in a much worse mood than he was in ten minutes ago.  
He resigns himself to getting dressed, and so removes his dressing gown and changes clothes, finishing with his usual long overcoat although the spring evening is pleasantly warm. 

Sherlock doesn't want to go to work tonight- there are far more productive things to be done for the Leeds case, and with far less social interaction besides- but maybe, just maybe, meeting some people will be alright for once.  
This John Watson character sounds interesting enough; a doctor, so probably smarter than the rest of Lestrade's idiot soldier friends, and, well, "good-looking" doesn't hurt either.

Sherlock doesn't care much for relationships of any kind, but he has _had_ them, and he has deduced that he finds men much more appealing than women. He supposes that this makes him a homosexual, but he prefers not to label, and besides, no one asks.  
No one asks him much of anything, in fact, beyond "Why are you such a freak?" and "How do you know all that?" (usually followed by "That's none of your business!").  
He knows that he intimidates people, and this doesn't bother him- much.

Sometimes, though, he wishes someone wouldn't treat him like such an abnormality.  
He wishes for someone who is interested in his work; who can understand how he thinks, even in the slightest; who can appreciate his extraordinary intellect without labelling it "freakish".  
He is lonely, he realizes.  
He wants a companion, an assistant, a partner; someone who makes sure he eats and sleeps and stubs out his discarded cigarettes before they light the couch on fire (again).

For the first time in his life, the solitary Sherlock Holmes just wants a friend.

***

**5:03 p.m.**

Sherlock finds himself alone on the doorstep of the Diogenes Building fifteen minutes later.  
(As Lestrade had guessed, the older Holmes' car was indeed parked in the alley behind number 221; he'd left it with Sherlock whilst in Scotland on business. Greg drove Sherlock to work with a look of boyish glee on his face, enjoying the privilege of being behind the wheel of the elegant black Cadillac. He dropped him there, shouting "I'll be off, now; the woman of the house will be waiting. Half-eight, don't forget!" before speeding off). 

It's nearly five now, so Sherlock will be able to work for his usual shift- (which is extremely short- _threatening to tell one's manager's wife that her husband is currently at the forefront of an Asian smuggling operation can prove very useful for getting one's way in matters such as determining one's own work hours,_ Sherlock has learned)- and still be able to meet Lestrade's friends.  
 _Well played, Greg,_ he thinks grudgingly.

Sighing, he pulls open the heavy doors, letting them slam noisily behind him. The old men's club is eerily quiet as always, and the noise reverberates from the high ceilings, the unearthly silence shattered.  
Ignoring the alarmed stares and indignant coughs of the club's patrons, Sherlock stalks across the room with his coat billowing dramatically behind him and descends the stairs to the nightclub level.  
He moves across the dim, empty room and positions himself behind the bar, taking a rag off the hook and wiping down the already immaculate surface unnecessarily. The club officially opened five minutes ago, at five o'clock sharp, something Sherlock has never understood, as the crowds won't trickle in til past six at least. He sighs and resigns himself to polishing glasses until they shine and reorganizing the liquor bottles- last week it was by country of origin and then by vintage, and this week Sherlock decides to go with colour of the label and then number of letters in the brand name, just to mix it up a little. 

His fellow employees (or rather, the only other people working here whose names Sherlock has bothered to learn), Sally Donovan and Michael Stamford, have arrived as well; Sally is a waitress and Stamford the doorman.

Sally hates Sherlock with a passion- this much is obvious- and Stamford is cheating on his third wife (with his second- less obvious, to anyone but Sherlock).

He greets them with a noncommittal murmur, and Sally grumbles a "Hello, freak," while Stamford grunts and heads to the front of the club to assume his position at the door.  
Sherlock sighs, already mind-numbingly bored, and hopes desperately that if nothing else, Lestrade's friends will at least add _something_ to the evening.  
 _Imagine that,_ he thinks sardonically, _you actually_ want _to meet people. What's happened to you, Sherlock, hmm?_

Another voice in his head gives the first a shove and tells it it's an idiot.

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! So, for any of you who've been reading this regularly (thank you very much, if you have!), I've added a bit more to the end of the previous chapter (as of 02-18-13). I considered making it a chapter of its own but decided that it flowed better if I stuck it on there.
> 
>  
> 
> Alright, carry on. Cheers. :)

At precisely half-eight, after Sherlock's spent a few hours mixing drinks and scowling, Greg Lestrade comes up to the bar and booms his name.  
"There you are, Holmes! Still bored?"  
He doesn't wait for an answer. "'Course you are. Can you mix up a Tom Collins with brandy, a gin fizz, and an extra-dry martini with a lime? And, of course, whatever you're drinking these days, because you're coming with me, my friend!"  
"I don't suppose there's any way out of this," Sherlock responds wearily.  
Greg grins, clearly affirming this statement, and Sherlock sighs and busies himself with the drinks, making another martini for himself. When he's finished, he gives the bar one final wipe with the rag and slips out the other side, passing two of the cocktails to Lestrade. They wind through the densely packed crowd, Greg leading the way, until they come to a table at the back with two people sitting at it and staring in opposite directions.

One of them- clearly several years older than both Sherlock and his table companion- has greasy brown hair and a rather unpleasant look on his face. _An army commander; late WW1 vet, judging by his tie; dislikes people; is generally rather rude; in a relationship with a woman who's quickly losing interest; has a gambling problem; is an idiot,_ Sherlock deduces in less than eight seconds. He hopes this isn't the fabled Watson.

The other is a pleasant-faced man with sandy hair and gentle eyes. He looks slightly older than Sherlock, and his face is lined with smile lines.  
His hair and the way he's sitting say military man- _his second tour, then, and probably by choice, as he's too old to be a new graduate of the Royal College._ He is wearing a secondhand-looking black sports coat over a white dress shirt whose cuffs have seen better days- _tight on money, living with his brother; they aren't close and it's an uncomfortable situation._  
Either he's an alcoholic or the brother is, going by the state of his wristwatch, which is engraved with "H.W.- love from Clara." Sherlock takes a closer look- _the brother, then,_ as it's an old, flashy gold piece that doesn't suit the rest of the man's attire- he obviously didn't pick it out for himself. A gift, then, but not from a father, uncle or friend. No, a brother, who has good intentions but isn't close enough to this man to know what kind of watch he'd wear.  
 _This,_ Sherlock thinks, _must be Watson._

All this he has picked up in, oh, thirteen seconds, maybe? While he is occupied with his deductions, he's vaguely aware of Greg introducing him to the table as "the best bartender this side of town" or something like that, and then realizes that the older man has paused- waiting for Sherlock to respond and acknowledge the praise, he supposes.  
Sherlock sniffs and says coolly- _bored bored bored so bored_ \- "I suppose so," before turning his attention back to the sandy-haired man, whom Greg is now introducing as John Watson.  
  
 _Ah, excellent, he's not the unpleasant one; as I'd thought,_ Sherlock thinks, satisfied. _Maybe this evening will turn out better than I'd expected._


	8. Chapter 8

**11:13 p.m.- present.  
 **The Diogenes Club, London.****

Sherlock looks at John expectantly, and his breath catches in this throat.  
"God, yes," he manages.  
Suddenly, Sherlock takes his arm in a firm grip and whisks him to the very back of the club, parting the crowds and leading him to a side entrance. John can hardly believe this is happening.

They push out the door into the warm night air, and before John can think, Sherlock has him pushed up against the brick building and is gazing intensely into his eyes with those beautiful pale ones, breathing hard.

"Christ, you're gorgeous," John gasps, and before he can say any more Sherlock's lips are on his.  
They kiss, urgent and rough and demanding. John is sure that Sherlock's lips will leave bruises and in this moment he doesn't care.  
When they come up for air, Sherlock's eyes are wild and determined. They hurry toward the street, and Sherlock leads John to a sleek, black, important-looking car.  
Sliding into the driver's side, he starts the engine and they speed off into the night. It is all John can do not to grab Sherlock by the collar and kiss him until they both forget how to breathe, but he knows that now is not the time.

The relatively short car ride seems to last a lifetime, but at last, they turn on to Baker Street, and Sherlock slides up to the kerb and brakes hard.  
He jumps out of the car and dashes to the door. John follows and waits impatiently for Sherlock to fumble with the lock. As soon as he gets it and shuts the door behind them, John is kissing him again with a fervent passion.  
 _Oh, God,_ he thinks desperately. He had never imagined his last night in London like this....  
 _No, John. Forget that this is your last night and just be here._

John growls low in his throat, irritated by the reminder that he leaves tomorrow, but Sherlock takes this as encouragement and pulls him closer, kissing him deeper.  
They end up pressed against the wall; Sherlock gasps for air and arches his neck elegantly, eyes closed, and John thinks that he has perhaps never seen anything more beautiful.

_"John...."_

***


	9. Chapter 9

**May 1st, 1943.  
 **12:57 a.m.****

Later, they are exhausted and tangled in each other.  
John is fast asleep and breathing peacefully, facing away from Sherlock on the never-used right side of the bed.  
Sherlock is still awake. He decides that tonight was quite possibly the least boring night of his life, and vows to thank Lestrade properly in the morning.  
 _Perhaps a bouquet of flowers would be appropriate,_ he thinks stupidly, beginning to drift off. _Or better yet, a knighthood...._

But before he can succumb to the sleepiness that is gradually overcoming him, he jolts awake suddenly and sits up with a start.  
 _The morning._ Tomorrow morning- _or, technically, this morning,_ he realizes, glancing at the clock.  
 _May first. The day John goes to Africa._

Sherlock lays back and stares at the ceiling, suddenly depressed. How cruel a joke this is, that John is to be torn away from him after just one night- an incredible, unbelievable, fantastical night- to go away and risk his life. Sherlock may never see him again.  
He sinks his hands into his hair and squeezes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Of course this would happen to him, of all the men in the world.  
He supposes this is the heavens' way of showing him, once more, that he is too wretched a soul to deserve anything close to love.

He doesn't know what to do; surely, there is some way for them to stay in contact, to ensure that John remembers him....  
Suddenly, he spies John's jacket, tossed on the floor beside the bed, and he has an idea.  
Careful not to disturb the sleeping doctor beside him, Sherlock untangles himself from the sheets and tiptoes out of bed. He goes to the bookcase and pulls out a brown paper envelope, which he upends, tipping out the contents into his hand. The envelope contains three photographs- little black-and-white prints, professionally done, from the previous autumn. He and Mycroft had had them taken for their Mummy's birthday, much to her surprise and delight, and each of the brothers had saved copies. Sherlock has never known what to do with them, and has always hated having his photograph taken (although, he admits inwardly, he _does_ look rather striking in these ones- all angles and shades and intrigue).  
He now finds a use for them; or, at least, one of them. He selects his favourite of the three, and before he can lose his nerve, he bends and slips the print into the inside pocket of John's coat; _the one right over his heart_ , he thinks with a secret thrill of satisfaction.

But no amount of sweet, secret gestures will change the fact that John is leaving in a few short hours- _leaving to go and get shot at_ , he thinks grimly.

Sherlock sighs in anguish and slips back into bed. He turns over, pulling John close to him, letting his warmth fill every part of him, savouring him while he still has time...  
John mutters in his sleep and snuggles into Sherlock's embrace, and for a second Sherlock forgets that tonight is all they have.  
He allows himself to drift away again, his chest rising and falling in time with John's.

John is the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes. If Sherlock were to die tonight- if, say, the Nazis were to bomb London and one were to hit this flat- he knows that he could die happy.

And the last thing he thinks is that _if they bombed us, John wouldn't have to go away..._

The idea is strangely pleasing, and he smiles slightly before sleep finally overcomes him.

Sherlock is fast asleep before he has time to scold himself.

***

**4:09 a.m.**

John wakes abruptly in the early morning. He doesn't recognize his surroundings at first, and looks around in a panic before remembering that he came home with Sherlock last night....

_Last night. Oh._

The corner of his mouth turns up and he can feel himself blushing as the memories rush back. John sits for a moment, basking in the glow of what was truly an amazing night- until he remembers what day it is.  
 _May the first. Shit._

He looks around wildly for a clock, hoping desperately that he hasn't missed the goddamn boat- but when he finds one, he is relieved to note that he doesn't have to be down at the docks for another hour.  
John breathes a long sigh and decides that he should probably be going, much as he hates to leave before Sherlock wakes. He takes a look at the detective's sleeping form beside him- dark curls splayed on the pillow, full lips slightly parted- and smiles sadly; he wonders if he'll ever see him again.  
He leans down to brush a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead and then quietly, cautiously gets out of bed and tiptoes into the parlour. He finds a pen and a scrap of paper and writes a quick note for Sherlock, placing it next to the kettle so he'll be sure to find it, and then gathers his clothes and dresses in the half-light of dawn.  
John steals down the stairs and shuts the front door of number 221 as softly as he can behind him before hailing a cab and telling the driver to take him to the pier. As they drive off, he takes one last look behind him and feels his chest tighten.  
John can almost swear he sees a flash of dark hair at the window, but he blinks and it is gone.

He can't believe that he has to leave Sherlock after spending just one night with him.  
John knows that this is more than just a one-night stand, at least on his end, and he can't bear the thought of never seeing the detective again; he had brought something exciting and beautiful into John's life, and now that something is slipping away from him as they drive closer and closer to the pier.

***

They arrive in about half an hour and John pays the driver, heading along the waterfront. He can see a group of men, who he guesses to be his fellow soldiers, congregating near one of the docks (presumably where their boat will arrive), and so he starts walking slowly that way.  
He'd been looking forward to this day; he's always enjoyed going to new places, and he likes his work as an army doctor, no matter how stressful and dangerous it can be.  
But that was before.  
Before last night; before he met Sherlock.  
Before he'd ever looked into his beautiful sea-glass eyes, before he'd ever kissed his perfect full lips, before he'd fallen in love with him....

John feels tears welling up behind his eyes and knows that he is in deep trouble.

A nasty little voice in his head starts nagging away at him.

 _It'll be months before you see him again- if you even_ do _, that is. He'll have forgotten your name by tomorrow. You'll be pining away for him forever and he'll be on to someone else before you know it. Hell, with that face, he'll be snatched up within the week. There's no way he cares for you, not the way you care for him. And why would he, a man like him and a man like you? You're just ordinary. And Sherlock Holmes, he is nothing if not extraordinary._

From the corner of his eye, John sees Lestrade jogging up to him, waving and calling his name, with a disgruntled-looking Anderson trailing behind. John forces a smile and gives a half-hearted wave back. He sighs deeply, trying to compose himself; _don't cry in front of the boys, now._  
"There you are, Watson! Weren't sure we'd ever see you again after last night; Kenneth here thought Sherlock'd murdered you," Greg laughs, coming to a stop in front of John.  
"The man's a psychopath," says Anderson disdainfully in his nasal voice, giving a deep sniff and staring down the bridge of his nose at John.  
He turns to Lestrade and says "I'm going to go finish my paperwork now, which I could have done already if you hadn't dragged me over here to say hello to this _faggot_."  
He glares at John, who feels like he's been slapped. John opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. Instead, he watches as Greg yells "Oi! You watch your mouth," to Anderson's retreating back.  
"Sorry, old chap," he sighs, turning back to John. "You know Anderson; he can be so damn crude sometimes."  
John shrugs and finds his voice again. He clears his throat. "I, ah, I suppose you two figured out what happened last night, then."  
"Er...yeah. Was a little, ah, obvious where it was headed...." Lestrade gestures vaguely, clearly embarrassed.

"Is that why you wanted Sherlock to meet all of us? Because you know that he was...that he, er, likes...men, same as, ahm, same as me, and you knew I was....lonely?" John asks with some difficulty. He can feel his face growing hot; he hates how easily he blushes.  
'Well, no, that's not all." Greg shuffles his feet in the dust. "But that...may have been part of it..."  
He looks up at John nervously, and is evidently surprised when John grins widely and claps him on the shoulder.

"Well thanks, mate! That was the best damn shag I've ever had."

Greg grins back and laughs, red-faced and obviously relieved.  
"Alright then, come on, you old dog. We'd best be following the crowd, here."  
The boat had arrived while they talked, and they now jog up to the dock, joining the crowd and boarding the ship that will take them far across the ocean- _far away from him._

Once they've boarded the ship and gotten settled in for the voyage, John tells Greg and Kenneth that he's going to walk around the boat, "get my sea legs on." And so he sets off for the upper deck, his favourite place to be; he normally loves watching the ocean rush past and seeing the coastline shrink to a smudge on the horizon, but today it depresses him, reminding him that every mile they go is another mile further from Sherlock.  
He sighs, trying to push the thoughts from his mind.  
He has reached the top deck now, and stands shakily, finding his bearings. The wind whips his hair, and although it's been raining for days, the early morning is warm; the weak sunlight is just beginning to break through the clouds.  
John moves to take off his coat, and as he does, feels his fingers brush something in the inside pocket. He frowns, not recalling putting anything there. At first, he thinks it is just a small piece of paper- a receipt, maybe?- but he feels that one side is glossy, and pulls it out to look.  
One side has writing on it, in flowing, elegant script:  
 _Sherlock Holmes, October 29, 1943._  
John's stomach flips. He turns the page over, his throat dry, and discovers that it is a photograph, a lovely, black-and-white thing, of Sherlock. He's not quite looking at the camera, and his expression is...open, and honest, somehow.  
John's heart skips a beat as he gazes into those beautiful, mystical eyes. He is touched.  
He smiles to himself and tucks the picture safely inside his coat again. _So I did mean something to him._

But as he leans on the railing, watching London grow smaller and smaller, the pang in his chest returns.  
John has no doubt that it will stay there for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the photograph. It's one of my favourites of Benedict, and I thought John deserved to have it. ;)
> 
>  


	10. Chapter 10

When he hears the door click shut and is sure John has left the flat, Sherlock- who has been awake this whole time- throws off the covers, grabs his blue dressing gown from the bedpost and hurries to the window. He looks down to the street just in time to see John climb into a black taxicab and slam the door behind him.  
Sherlock leans his head on the cool windowpane and closes his eyes for a second, then quickly turns away. He doesn't want to watch John leave him; it makes it far too real.

Eventually, he makes his way into the kitchen, and when he puts the kettle on the stove to boil he finds a piece of paper strategically placed beside it. Sherlock picks it up, unfolds it and reads:

"Sherlock-  
I am so sorry I had to leave so suddenly, without a chance to say goodbye.  
I wanted to thank you, though, for last night. It was amazing.  
 _You_ are amazing, Sherlock. I-"

-and here Sherlock swears he can hear John pause, closing his eyes and sighing before picking up the pen again-

"I hope we meet again. I desperately, desperately do. But, well, if we don't-"

 __Sherlock winces at the implication that John won't make it back from Africa.

"-I want you to know that last night was the best night of my life, and that I will remember it- and you- for as long as I live.  
Thank you." 

The note is signed simply "John Watson."  
When Sherlock finishes reading it, he simply stands motionless, clutching the page. The tea-kettle boils and starts whistling, getting louder and louder and shriller and shriller.  
Sherlock does not move.  
He doesn't know how long he stands there for, but when he finally moves again, he finds that his face and the note in his hands are wet with tears.

***

On the fourth of May, the Times announces that the British First Army has successfully invaded and captured Tunis as of the day before.  
Sherlock scours the newspaper hungrily, hoping- and fearing- a mention of John's name. He is disappointed and relieved not to find one.  
(He learns, however, that that idiot Commander Anderson was the hero of the mission, and that he was to be highly commended for his achievement; Sherlock is very, very surprised.)

***

The weeks pass.  
John misses Sherlock.

The other boys he rooms with keep pictures of their girls beneath their pillows, or they tuck them in their pockets before going into battle.  
"For luck," they say, with wistful smiles. 

John sleeps with the photograph of Sherlock held close to his heart underneath the covers, and in the darkness he can almost pretend he's back at Baker Street with Sherlock's arms around him.

***

In late June, John receives news that his brother has been killed in a bar-room brawl. Though it is a shock and a blow, he is not surprised; he always knew Harry's drinking would be the end of him. He does not grieve.

Instead he throws himself into the work he no longer enjoys, trying to ignore the taunting visions that haunt his nights; visions of dancing eyes and charcoal curls, of silk shirts thrown to the floor and smooth marble skin next to his.

He is hopelessly depressed by the casualties he treats.  
Many of them he knew- some were his roommates.  
 _Their "luck" ran out,_ he thinks.

 _All these young soldiers, brave, strong men sent away to fight for their country- their lives extinguished with a single shot._ _They all have families at home, lovers, and spouses, even, whom they will never see again._  
 _All these kids are never coming home._

He almost wishes he was a casualty himself; just another dead body, another lost solider. There is no one who would bury his body, no one to cry and wail and pine for him. There is no one who loves him. He is far from home in a strange land, depressed and lost and so, so alone.

_Would Sherlock cry for me?_

***

John writes letters, hundreds of them.  
Some are rhapsodies, nearly poetry, that he knows Sherlock would scoff at.  
These are crumpled and thrown to the floor with a sigh almost as soon as they are written.

Others are shorter, simpler; just  
"I miss you."  
or  
"I'm sorry."  
or  
"I love you."

There are others, too, civil and cautious; as if between former lovers, reunited and carefully figuring out their place in each others' lives.

"Hello, Sherlock.  
How are you? I'm alright, I suppose. I tend to patients and don't do much else.  
Mostly, I dream of you and count the days until you're mine again.  
Yours always,  
John."

He sends none of them, not a single one.  
Instead, he takes a match to them and watches the delicate words curl and twist and turn to smoke.

***


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> So: in this chapter I'm basically abandoning the quasi-real-life timeline I've (kind of) kept up thus far. There was no real rebel uprising in Tunis after the capture in May '43, but I've made one up because I needed John to get shot.  
> (I'm awful, I know: I'm sorry). 
> 
> Okay, that's all.  
> Thanks again for reading! xo

**July 19, 1943.  
 **221b Baker Street, London.****

Sherlock doesn't eat. He doesn't sleep. He writes sad music and plays his violin at all hours of the night until Mrs Hudson, his landlady-and-definitely-not-his-housekeeper, complains.  
(He continues to play it anyway. She merely throws up her hands and declares it a lost cause).

Most people would assume that he's heartbroken. Now, matters pertaining to "most people" don't generally apply to Sherlock Holmes- _but just this once, they might,_ his older brother thinks.

Mycroft Holmes lets himself into 221b and steps into a completely darkened flat. He blinks as his eyes adjust from the summer sun to the complete absence of light- the blackout curtains are down, although it's the middle of the afternoon, and there's no sign of Sherlock anywhere.  
The older Holmes sighs- _oh, this is just like him, always has to be so dramatic-_ and wrinkles his nose as he delicately picks his way through piles of manuscript paper, half-open books, discarded clothing, dirty dishes, old experiments in various stages of decay, and other unidentifiable debris. He pulls open the blackout curtains, letting the bright July sunshine fill the room, and surveys the disaster zone that was once the parlour- there are some neater patches where someone (Mrs Hudson, presumably) has tried valiantly to clean up, but they stop after a while; evidently she gave up.  


_Smart woman; knows a lost cause when she sees one._

He shakes his head and picks his way down the hall, treading carefully.  
Mycroft stands outside his brother's bedroom door for a moment, leaning on his umbrella. He then raps smartly on the door and calls "A wee bit lovesick, are we, Sherlock?" and pushes it open without waiting for a response.  
Sherlock is in a heap on the bed, curled up and wearing what appears to be a sheet. He groans when the light from the open door hits his face, and opens one eye to glare at Mycroft accusingly. 

"Get out."

Mycroft rocks on his heels, smiling pleasantly down at his brother.

"I shan't."

Sherlock opens the other eye and shoots him a murderous glare. "What the hell are you doing h-"  
He stops. Something in his brilliant brain seems to have clicked into place, and he sits bolt upright. His sheet slides off his shoulder and he yanks it back up impatiently.

"Oh, no. Ohhh, no, Mycroft, you can _not_ have come to talk to me about..."

Sherlock trails off, clearly uncomfortable. He avoids his brother's gaze. 

"About?" Mycroft prompts sweetly. _Oh, how he loves making his unflappable brother squirm._

"About my...love life," Sherlock expels finally. 

"Ah! Brilliant deduction, my dear brother. That is, in fact, precisely the purpose of today's little visit."

Mycroft smiles, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary. Sherlock wants to punch him. _Rather hard,_ he thinks, _and square in the jaw._

He rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head. When he speaks, it's muffled by the mattress. "Go on, then. Talk."

Mycroft clears his throat.  
"it has come to my attention that you had a....rendezvous, shall we say-" Sherlock groans- "with a man by the name of John Watson on the thirtieth of April, nineteen forty-three."

At the mention of John's name, Sherlock feels a sharp stab in his solar plexus.  
He does not want to hear John's name. He does not want to talk about John, or about their "rendezvous", for that matter. He wants very much for his idiot brother to get out of his flat right now and let him get back to ~~sulking~~ _thinking_ , and considers telling him so; but as he rolls back over and opens his mouth Mycroft holds up a hand. 

"Firstly, I would like to congratulate you. It would appear that you _are,_ in fact, capable of interacting with other humans in a manner other than insulting their intelligence. Bravo!"  
And to Sherlock's utter mortification and outrage, he gives him a little round of applause.  
(The urge to punch him increases exponentially).

Mycroft continues, his tone becoming serious. 

"Now. Secondly, I came to caution you. I presume you are aware that John Watson is currently fighting overseas in Africa?"  
There is no response, but he takes this as an affirmative and carries on.  
"Tunis was captured several months ago, but there has been a rebel uprising; thus, the British First Army remains stationed there, on a peacekeeping effort. It is not going as planned, and the mission has become far more dangerous than anticipated. Virtually everyone who can shoot a gun is being brought out to the 'front lines', so to speak; this includes your John."

Sherlock's stomach sinks at this information. He has mostly been keeping up-to-date with the war, yes, but this is news to him, and it worries him profoundly.

"There is a high risk that he will be injured- or worse."

Sherlock scoffs. "So I gathered."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Let me finish. Knowing this risk, I came to warn you not to get too attached- but, well, I see that I am too late." He smiles innocently again, and Sherlock snaps. 

"This is none of your _bloody_ business, Mycroft," he snarls. "I can have... _rendezvous_...with whomsoever I may choose."

"Sherlock."

Mycroft's voice is calm as he explains "I've arranged for Captain Watson to be...supervised. If anything happens to him, anything at all, I will be notified immediately and we will be there as soon as we can.  
We'll keep him safe, Sherlock."

Sherlock's expression softens.

John is just another British soldier. His life shouldn't matter to Mycroft; he shouldn't be putting this much time and effort into his protection. He shouldn't care at all.  
But he does, and Sherlock realizes that Mycroft cares because _he_ does.  
He wants his little brother to be happy...so he's arranging for Royal Family-grade protection for the man Sherlock is _maybequitepossiblydefinitelyalittlebitcompletely_ in love with.

 _The Holmes brothers do have funny ways of showing sentiment, don't we,_ thinks Sherlock wryly. But he appreciates the gesture, appreciates it more than he cares to show; in fact, he's not quite sure how to react outwardly.  
So he says simply "Get out of my flat."

Mycroft nods. "Gladly. I have said all I came to say, and I am happy to take my leave."  
He turns to go and pauses with his hand on the door. His expression is almost tender but his voice is serious as he says "Just...be cautious, Sherlock. All lives end; all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."  
And with that, he is gone.  
Sherlock hears the front door slam and a car rev up and then drive away.  
When he is sure he is alone again, Sherlock whispers "Thank you."

Mycroft is right- caring is not an advantage. Sentiment is for normal people, stupid people who let their hearts rule their heads- and what a ridiculous notion that is; _a heart pumps blood, it doesn't feel things,_ Sherlock thinks, disgusted. 

But what is this, then, that he feels for John? He doesn't go a day- no, he doesn't go _five minutes_ without thinking of him, and he misses him so much it's like a piece of him has gone with John to Africa.  
He can still feel John's lips on his, the soft touch of his fingers on the planes of his chest; he can still see his gentle eyes shining as he whispers Sherlock's name. 

They had one night together.

Sherlock knows he should not be feeling like this. 

But he does, and it's exhilarating and terrifying and he wants more of it, all of it, and he hates it and he _cannot make it stop_.

What is this, then, if not love? He abhors the notion, doesn't even want to consider it- _love is for_ them _, not for me_ \- but he has no other name for this; this heady rush of sensation, so intense it is almost pain. _There is no way John can feel the same way,_ Sherlock thinks.  
 _Why would he? He is a hero, I am a freak. He saves lives, I solve puzzles._  
 _He's brave and kind and smart and people_ like _him, they enjoy his company;_ I _enjoy his company, for God's sake._  
 _He is luminous and marvellous and fascinating. He is the utter opposite of me and there is no way in this world that he could ever feel the same way- no, feel_ anything _about me._

 _Delete him,_ thinks Sherlock suddenly; _I will delete him, and then everything will return to normal.  
_ And so he closes his eyes tight and he tries; oh, how he tries. 

Tries to delete John's smile  
 _(the smile that was for me was all for me was mine)_  
Tries to delete his eyes  
 _(those eyes that looked at me like I'd never been looked at before, with awe and admiration and...something else, something beautiful)_  
Tries to delete the way they fit together so perfectly  
 _(like he was made to go just there, warm and familiar in the hollow of my stomach, his head on my heart and my heart in his hands-_ )

Sherlock snaps open his eyes and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.  
His head hurts.  
It doesn't matter how hard he tries; John Watson refuses to be deleted.

He has found his way into Sherlock's very being, and the only way to get him out would be to open up his body and suck the marrow from his bones, drain the blood from his veins, take the breath from his lungs. 

John is a part of him- a part that he knows, deep inside, he cannot live without. 


	12. Chapter 12

**August 29, 1943.  
 **4:11 p.m.  
 **Somewhere in the desert near Tunis, Africa.******

****All is quiet in the afternoon sun. There are three British soldiers crouched behind a rocky outcropping, their rifles aimed and ready. They are watching; waiting for the rebels.

The three men are Major Greg Lestrade, farthest behind the outcrop; Corporal Allen Rickard in the middle; and Captain John Watson, closes to the outside edge.  
Technically, John shouldn't be here- he is a doctor, not a combatant. But there weren't enough people who could- or would- do this particularly dangerous job, and John is a damn good shot, so he offered himself up. He simply doesn't care anymore.

None of the men see the rebel sniper, perched on a cliff high above them, until it is too late.

Lestrade looks up suddenly, crying out, as a single shot is fired.  
Time seems to slow down as the bullet leaves the gun, streaks through the air and, as John watches numbly, pierces his body armour through a weak spot in the shoulder. 

The impact knocks John on his back; his head hits the hard-packed sand with a heavy _thud._  
He feels nothing at first- he can only watch as blood blossoms from the wound, and he dimly hears his comrades shouting his name.

John looks down at the wound- _mistake_.  
The bullet hole in his left shoulder gapes grotesquely; the skin is ragged and torn and there is blood, _so much blood._ For a moment, John is horrifically captivated by the way it bleeds in spurts, at the rate of his pulse.

And then the pain hits him.

It slams into him, and he is drowning in a sea of agony, gasping for breath. He can practically feel the path of the bullet- breaking skin, piercing flesh, tearing muscle, grazing bone.  
It's too much, all too much, the blinding sunlight and the excruciating pain and the voices of the other men, and John retches onto the sand. His mouth tastes of blood and his vision is going red.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he is vaguely aware of Greg shouting into a radio.  
"Ten-two, I repeat ten-two; this is Major Lestrade. One of our men has been shot and we need emergency transport _immediately!_ Hurry _up_ , he's bleeding, oh Christ, there's so much blood..." He trails off, panicked and shaky, and John's eyes slide shut.

He thinks only _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_ as he blacks out.


	13. Chapter 13

**September 1, 1943.  
 **1:12 a.m.  
 **British First Army base camp infirmary, Tunis, Africa.******

John thrashes in his sleep.  
He is back out in the baked desert, on patrol, hiding behind a rock with Lestrade and Rickard. He hears Greg cry out, turns his head to look-

Time stops and John feels the bullet pierce his skin, enter his body, sees blood pour and pour and never stop.  
And then there is the pain, always the pain....

"Aaagh!"  
John wakes with sweat pouring down his face. His body is on fire, engulfed in pain, it's hammering at his senses and he can't breathe can't breathe can't breathe....  
"Nurse!" he chokes. The pain is making the room swim in front of his eyes, and his _shoulder_ , oh God someone's tearing him apart from the inside out.  
"Quickly...."

A petite, mousy nurse dressed all in white comes hurrying over, her eyes wide. She unwraps his bandage and immediately sees what is wrong.  
During his nightmare, John has displaced his bandage with his thrashing, and the stitches closing his wound have come undone. She calls for a doctor, who helps her restrain him as they re-stitch the wound as quickly as they can.  
And all throughout the process, John is crying out and fighting against them and calling for "Sherlock, Sherlock, I need Sherlock...."

When he at last falls back asleep, after they have re-bandaged him and given him more morphine, the nurse and doctor leave his "room" and stand quietly in the aisle between cots.  
"Do we send for Mycroft Holmes?" the nurse- a young woman named Molly Hooper- asks Dr Roger Stevenson.  
Stevenson nods gravely.  
"We've dispatched a telegram informing him of John's injury.  
He's instructed us to notify us if anything happened, anything at all, but especially, _absolutely_ if Captain Watson started asking for Sherlock Holmes."

***

**September 3, 1943.  
 **10:33 a.m.****  
 **221b Baker Street, London.**

Mycroft stands outside the door of Sherlock's flat, mentally preparing himself for the news he's about to deliver. He received an emergency telegram from Tunis that morning- he has no doubt that it cost a small fortune to deliver, but it brings news of John Watson, and that is the purpose of the network he has set up.  
He dreads giving Sherlock the telegram's message; he hates to see him upset, and this will definitely fall under the category of 'upsetting'.

He takes a deep breath and knocks three times. Sherlock calls "You're a git, Mycroft," from the other side of the door, and his older brother can hear his footsteps approaching. When Sherlock opens the door, he is running a hand through his tousled curls and looking at Mycroft with contempt.  
"What is it?" he asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.  
immediately, his mind jumps to John, and he starts worrying; his heart spirals into his stomach.  
 _Shot killed left to bleed out in the desert dead eyes never coming home no no not John, please not John-_

"Is it-"  
"-John," Mycroft finishes, nodding sombrely.  
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but John Watson's been shot."  
***

Sherlock swallows, fearing the worst and praying that it isn't so. The room tilts on its axis.

"And-?"

"And he's alive."

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief; his world stops spinning. But to his dismay, Mycroft continues.  
"It hit an artery and he very nearly bled to death.  
He's strong, and he's pulling through, but he is in a lot of pain. The recovery process will be long and excruciating; his shoulder will never be the same again, and he's exhibiting signs of severe emotional trauma."  
Mycroft pauses.  
"But ever since he woke up, he's been asking for you."

Sherlock stops breathing for a moment.

 _He remembers he remembers he remembers._  
John remembers him, remembers that night.  
John wants him. John is asking for him.  
 _John does care._

"Get me to Africa," Sherlock says through gritted teeth.  
"I don't think-" Mycroft begins.  
" _Get. Me. To. John. Watson_." Sherlock looks his brother square in the eye, his expression deadly serious.  
Mycroft holds his gaze for a moment before sighing and turning away.  
"I'll see what I can do."

***

Even when they were children, Mycroft had always been fiercely protective of Sherlock, standing up for him when he was bullied and taking care of him when Daddy left and Mummy couldn't get out of bed.  
And so it's only natural that this instinct has extended into adulthood; luckily for him, he now has far greater means (a large portion of the British government, to be precise) at his disposal to ensure Sherlock's safety and happiness.

John Watson makes Sherlock happy. Therefore, Mycroft will not allow any harm to come to him.  
 _It would destroy Sherlock,_ he thinks, _and that simply will not do._


	14. Chapter 14

**September 5, 1943.  
 **Somewhere over the Mediterranean Sea.  
 **7:49 p.m.******

Two days late, Sherlock and Mycroft are aboard a private plane belonging to the British government, which they have "somehow" (translation: "Mycroft") allowed to be dispatched on non-war-related business.  
 _For all the times my brother is a mightier-than-thou arsehole, there are some times when his position really comes in handy,_ Sherlock thinks grudgingly.  
He is drumming his feet impatiently on the floor, willing the pilot to fly faster, to land in Africa and get him to John as quickly as possible.  
He hasn't slept a wink since hearing of John's injury. He's been worried sick, pacing the flat all through the night (and shooting holes in the wall, much to Mrs Hudson's chagrin), and constantly asking Mycroft why they couldn't have flown out sooner.  
(Each time, Mycroft has sternly reminded him that he's lucky to have acquired transportation on such short notice, "and in the middle of a war, too, young man. I'll remind you that your needs are not the most important thing on the country's mind at present.")

But finally, at long last, they touch down in Africa. An armoured vehicle is waiting to take them to base camp, and officials escort them off the plane, calling them "Mr Holmes" and "Mr Holmes." Sherlock has to restrain from shoving everyone out of the way and speeding to the camp himself- he would, too, if not for the small facts that they are in the middle of a war zone and he would get arrested for assaulting government personnel.

After a seemingly endless and extraordinarily bumpy Jeep ride, the Holmes brothers and their entourage arrive at base. It's late- nearly midnight local time, and the stars twinkle brightly overhead in the pitch-black desert sky. The night air is cool and smells of spice and danger.  
They bounce up a dirt path and pull into the camp. Sherlock leaps out of the vehicle and, ignoring the protests of the soldiers at the gate, stalks through the camp, past tents and barracks and parked cars; he hears Mycroft behind him, apologizing and explaining.  
Sherlock breaks into a run when he sees a low white structure emblazoned with a red cross. He bursts through the doorway, pushing aside the curtain that serves as a door, and the nurses look up in surprise.

"Where is he?" he demands, too loud for the deathly quiet room. The only other sounds are the laboured breathing and eerie, pained moans of injured and dying soldiers, and Sherlock shudders despite himself. The nurses look wide-eyed at each other, clearly panicked.  
He speaks again.  
"Where is John Watson?"  
One of the nurses, a wispy brunette, steps forward. She looks up at him nervously and stammers in a high, flutey voice, "Wh-who are you, sir?"  
Sherlock sighs in exasperation. "Agh, that's not important! _Where is John Watson?"_

The petite nurse trembles, looking around for support; luckily for her, Mycroft pushes through the doorway, short of breath and rather red in the face, and holds up his ID.  
"Ah, Miss Molly Hooper," he wheezes, wiping his brow with a pristine white handkerchief. "It is a pleasure to see you again, and I do apologize for my little brother-"  
The nurse's terrified face breaks into a relieved smile. "Oh, hello, Mr Holmes! Is he with you, then?" She indicates Sherlock. "I mean, you said 'brother', so-" She flushes and bites her lip, stepping back slightly from the detective, who is positively seething.  
"I won't ask you again, Miss Hooper-"  
"Just here, Sherlock, up this row," another voice interjects. It's a tired-looking Greg Lestrade, who's just appeared next to them. He points to the third bed in the row closest to them, and Sherlock is off like a shot without so much as a "hello" or a "thank you."

He yanks back the curtain, opening his mouth to say something- _Thank God you're alive? Why did you have to leave me? I think I'm in love with you and I don't know what to do?_ \- but stops when he sees John's sleeping form.  
His mouth is open in a little "O", and he's frowning ever so slightly; he looks young and defenceless, and something in his expression makes Sherlock very, very sad.  
Sherlock's heart tugs, and he stands for a minute just looking at him- cataloguing every line, every freckle, every cell of the face he's missed so much- before collapsing on to the rough wooden stool next to the cot.  
He wants so badly to gather John into his arms, to kiss his weather-lined face and tell him that everything will be alright, he's here now, he'll protect him....

He is startled when the curtain is pulled open behind him, and he looks up sharply to find Greg Lestrade looking at him with something like a fatherly expression.  
"He must be something special," Greg says quietly, laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
Sherlock thinks _Yes, he's the most utterly, completely, perfectly special man in the universe, and he has absolutely no idea._

_And he's been shot, and he's hurting, he's in so much pain, and I can't do anything about it._

He nods curtly, feeling his throat tighten and hating it, hating that he _feels_ so much.  
He recalls Mycroft's words:  
 _Caring is not an advantage._

Sherlock has never felt more helpless in his life.

***

Greg shakes his head in wonderment. When he speaks, it's as if he's read Sherlock's mind. "You flew across a continent in the middle of a war for this man, Sherlock. If that isn't love, I don't know what is."

Sherlock stares straight ahead for a moment, then abruptly folds forward and begins to sob in earnest.

Greg, stunned, gingerly moves his hand and awkwardly begins to rub circles onto the younger man's back, unsure of what to say. He clears his throat.  
"Ah...there, there, Sherlock, he's going to be alright..."  
He knows he's lying, grasping at straws. He's just as scared and unsure as Sherlock is, but refuses to let himself show it; he is so struck by the younger man's rare moment of insecurity that he feels an instinctive need to protect him- the same need, in fact, that first surfaced the day he met Sherlock.

It was raining that day, Greg recalled suddenly, and there'd been an air raid the night before.  
Sherlock had been huddled in an alleyway near the British Museum, arms lined with puncture wounds and a discarded syringe clutched tight in his shaking hand. He'd been close to unconscious, and shivering, soaked through. Greg had suddenly been compelled to help the young man up, give him his coat and take him to shelter- he didn't know what it was, but something in his frightened eyes reminded him of himself, a long time ago.  
He'd found out his name and what he'd been taking- intravenous crack cocaine- and he'd brought him home. Greg's wife had fed him and let him stay in the spare room. And eventually, they helped him find a job, tending bar at the Diogenes, and even a little flat on Baker Street.

Although he is most often detached and even rude, from that day forth Sherlock Holmes has been like a son to him, and it pains Greg to see him like this- crying noiselessly, his slim frame racked with sobs and trembling. He knows that Sherlock probably detests the fact that he is there at all- this must be the ultimate humiliation; a crack in his emotionless façade- and feels a deep sorrow for the detective, who so rarely allows himself to feel at all.

Greg Lestrade thinks,  _Today is a historic occasion- the day we've discovered that Sherlock Holmes can feel things._  
 _Sherlock Holmes is crying._  
 _Sherlock bloody Holmes has a heart._

_Well, I'll be damned._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting, guys! I am so sorry I haven't updated in a few days; I've had nonstop choir rehearsals and the WiFi's been acting up. Sigh.  
> I'm sorry this one is so short, but I think I'll try and post two or even three chapters today. :)

**September 10, 1943.**

****John drifts in and out of consciousness for days, feverish and sweating and in massive amounts of pain.  
The nightmares continue.

The wound is infected.  
The doctor says that it's minor, that it should get better quickly.  
It doesn't.

Dr Stevenson and the nurses whisper and frown and look to his bed with worry in their eyes.

Sherlock keeps a constant vigil at John's bedside, holding his hand and stroking his hot forehead with incredible care.  
He doesn't speak to anyone; eats and sleeps only when Greg forces him to- and even then, it usually takes a threat of Mycroft for Sherlock to comply. 

One night, Greg leans against the doorframe, unseen, and watches as Sherlock just gazes at John with such tenderness that Greg can feel his throat tightening.  
The look on Sherlock's face- it's as if John is a priceless work of art; a glass figure he's afraid to break; something so rare and beautiful that he won't even touch for fear of damaging.  
As he watches, a tear slides down Sherlock's face, and he rests his head on John's chest. His back shakes with silent sobs.

It is the most intimate, vulnerable thing Greg has ever seen, and he suddenly feels obtrusive.  
He swallows through the lump in his throat and turns away, leaving as softly as he'd come.

***

John sits bolt upright, crying out, in the middle of the night- the nightmares again.  
Sherlock, dozing off on the stool beside his bed, jerks awake. He takes John in his arms, holding him close and supporting him as he cries. He rubs his back and whispers soothing words in his ear.

_Je suis ici, mon coeur. Dors._  
 _Je t'aime._

Eventually, John's body stops shaking. His face relaxes and he sinks back onto the pillow. He hasn't woken up through all of this, and as Sherlock watches, his breathing regains a steady rhythm.  
His heart breaks to see John, his John, in such a state. He wishes more than anything that he could make it all go away, heal the wounds in his shoulder and in his soul. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French words that Sherlock says to John are literally translated as "I'm here, my heart. Sleep.  
> I love you."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone be willing and/or interested in drawing a cover for this fic?  
> I would love to have one, but I'm hopeless at drawing and I've no idea what I'd do.
> 
> I feel super awkward asking this, but if anyone could or would do one, please contact me via the Archive or my [Tumblr.](http://whatrhymeswithbaskerville.tumblr.com)
> 
> Ahh okay, now carry on. :)

**September 19, 1943.**  
 **5:53 a.m.**

At long last, John's fever breaks, and he wakes up.

He opens his eyes in the early morning, startled- _where am I?_  
His shoulder starts to throb, and he winces; he realizes that he is in the infirmary at base camp. John is momentarily struck by the irony of the situation- normally, he would be treating the wounded from this mission, not one of the wounded himself.  
He looks around and quickly notices a dark form on the stool next to the bed. He frowns; he can't place who it is at first, but as he looks closer-

John's heart leaps.

_Sherlock?_

John doesn't believe it at first, but as he looks closer he is sure; there's no mistaking that face.

The detective seems to be asleep, but abruptly opens his eyes, as if he'd felt John staring. 

He turns to face him, and as their eyes meet, every doubt either of them had had about the other's feelings is suddenly washed away.

John's lips move, silently forming Sherlock's name, and he cannot look away from him. _His eyes, his eyes..._

Sherlock moves closer, getting up from his stool and coming to stand next to John's bed. Slowly, tentatively, he brings one hand up to John's face; John follows it with his eyes, spellbound. Sherlock's touch is cool on his skin, and it feels surreal after weeks of fever. 

Sherlock rests his forehead on John's and whispers, quietly, teasingly, "Hello, Doctor Watson."

***

The spell is broken, and John can't help but to laugh at the faux-formality of his greeting. He is so exhilarated and thrilled and surprised and so utterly _happy_ to see Sherlock that he can't speak for a moment.  
"Hello, Mr Holmes," he whispers back in equally dignified tones, and then reaches up and takes Sherlock's face in his hands.  
Their lips meet, and it seems as if the past five months didn't happen at all. There was only that perfect first night, and they are picking up where they left off.

***

They are interrupted some time later by a prim little throat-clearing noise from the door. _Mycroft,_ thinks Sherlock irritably, straightening up.  
"Hello, dear brother," Mycroft says delicately, raising an eyebrow. "I hope I'm not... _interrupting_ anything."  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, opening his mouth, but it is John- turning bright red- who speaks.  
"Ah, right, sorry, did you say- you're Sherlock's brother?"  
Mycroft nods. "Yes. Mycroft Holmes; pleased to make your acquaintance." He smiles pompously. "Now. Evidently, you are feeling better, Captain Watson; I shall inform Dr Stevenson at once."  
"Yes, alright, very nice, Mycroft, now _leave_ ," Sherlock says tightly. John smiles to himself.  
"Be careful with him, Sherlock," Mycroft calls, already striding down the hall, his umbrella tucked snugly in the crook of his arm.  
Sherlock sighs loudly. "I'm sorry about him. Unfortunately, he's rather important, so I think people would notice if he suddenly went _missing_..."  
John grins; he's missed Sherlock's bored, sarcastic humour. "It's fine, really. But- how are you here?" He leaves the _and why_ unsaid.

Sherlock shrugs, offhand.  
"Long story short- my brother put protection detail on you. When you were shot, they told us, and we flew out. I've been here-" he indicates John's room- "for a few weeks now."

John gapes. "You flew out here in the middle of a war for me? _Me?_ Sherlock, I- I don't know what-"  
He is at a loss for words. Instead of trying to speak, he grabs Sherlock by the shoulders and pulls him in, kissing him hard.  
"You-"  
"-bloody-"  
"- _idiot,_ " he murmurs breathlessly between kisses.  
Sherlock smiles at him, and John feels as though his heart will burst.

***

This time, they are warned by the approaching click-clicks of two sets of footsteps that people are approaching John's room. They break away from one another and arrange themselves- John's face is still beet-red, and Sherlock's hair is mussed; both of them are breathing too heavily for two men just having a polite conversation.  
Their gazes meet and John has to stifle a giggle; Sherlock presses his lips together in an effort not to laugh, but his eyes are bright.

A doctor- one of John's coworkers- pulls back the curtain and enters the space, followed closely by Mycroft. The doctor's face breaks into a wide grin as he says "I can't tell you how pleased I am to see you awake, John. You had us all worried there for quite some time!"  
John replies with "Well, I'm sorry, Doctor Stevenson; if I'd known, I wouldn't have gotten shot." He smiles.

"How are you feeling?" Stevenson asks, sitting down on the stool and poising his pen over a clipboard.  
"Ah...bloody awful, acually," John grimaces. The excitement of seeing Sherlock had made him forget about his shoulder, but the pain has returned with a vengeance. "What happened?" he asks.  
The doctor takes a deep breath. He and Mycroft exchange a look, and then he turns to John and explains "You were shot on the twenty-ninth of August- twenty-one days ago. The bullet grazed an artery, and honestly, you're lucky to be alive; you could easily have bled out.  
Fortunately for you, however, your friend Greg Lestrade was able to staunch the blood flow and call for transport and medical assistance as soon as you were hit."

John shudders. Wounds such as his are most often fatal, and for the first time in months, he feels incredibly lucky to be alive.

"It'll hurt for a long time, and will definitely scar. Won't be pretty," the doctor says.  
He forces an awkward smile. "Recovery...recovery will not be an easy process. To be frank, it'll be very, very difficult, but we have, ah...connections...who will help to make things as comfortable as possible for you."  
His eyes dart to Mycroft on "connections", and John looks to Sherlock, who rolls his eyes. _Prat,_ he mouths, and John tries not to laugh.

He turns his attention back to Stevenson, who continues, his tone becoming solemn.  
His smile falters as he says "And...one more thing, Captain Watson."  
John frowns. He can sense where this is headed.  
"You'll be invalided home once you're well enough to leave the hospital. Honourable discharge, and a medal for bravery besides; you'll be well taken care of, not to worry."  
Dr Stevenson pats his knee. John had been expecting this, but it's still a shock to hear; if he were standing, he thinks his legs would've gone out from under him.  
What will he do now? Where will he go? He'll be unemployed, and he has no education beyond military college. 

John realizes that the doctor is waiting for a response of some kind, and so he takes a breath and says "Ah. Well. Thank you, Doctor."  
Stevenson nods and asks "I assume you've got somewhere to stay, back in London?" John is about to nod a yes, but stops, suddenly remembering.  
He stopped paying the rent on his flat when he shipped out- he didn't know how long he'd be gone for (and, honestly, if he'd even be coming back)- and someone else is surely living there now. He has no one to stay with; nowhere to go.

_Unless._

John pauses in his thoughts, thinking of a certain flat on Baker Street; a feeble glimmer of hope, a "maybe" at most.

_Unless._

As if he's read his mind, Sherlock, who has been quiet through all this, speaks suddenly.  
"Yes, actually, Doctor; John will be living with me once we return to London," he says smoothly.  
Stevenson looks surprised to hear him speak; he doesn't seem to have noticed him lounging in the corner of the room. He quickly regains his composure and asks "And you are...?"  
"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one-b Baker Street. Now, if you'll excuse us...?" he says briskly. He lopes to the doorway and pulls back the curtain, indicating that the doctor and Mycroft should exit. "I believe your presence is no longer required. Ta-ta!"

They exit, the doctor looking bemused, and Sherlock smiles, self-satisfied.  
"That was tedious," he says, turning back to face John, who looks stunned.  
"Did you mean that, Sherlock? Am I- were you serious about me living with you, or did you just want them to leave?" he stammers.  
Sherlock frowns. "Of course I'm serious, John.  
"I nearly lost you once, and I intend for it never to happen again."

John can only grin as Sherlock bends to kiss him once more.

When they break the kiss, John looks straight into Sherlock's eyes and whispers "I love you, you stupid, brilliant bastard."

Sherlock doesn't need to say anything in return; the look in his eyes tells John all he needs to know.  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can hardly believe that I've been writing this for a month now; you guys have been so supportive and amazing from the very beginning, and now here we are at the end.
> 
> I totally didn't plan the ending of this- it sort of came out of nowhere!- and I still can't believe it's over; I'm not quite sure what to do with myself now, actually.  
> But thanks so much, everyone, for all your feedback, and I'll see you next time! :)
> 
> (Also, if anyone's interested, the piece Sherlock plays at the end is the Gavotte en Rondeau from Bach's Partita Number Three, to be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lkTJtsjlfPY)).

**October 12, 1943.  
 **Baker Street, London.  
 **8:55 p.m.******

****A sleek Cadillac pulls up in front of 221 Baker Street, driven by a chauffeur wearing black leather gloves. The back door opens, and a tall, elegantly dressed dark-haired man exits. He holds open the door for the other passenger, a shorter man with sandy hair, and extends his hand to him. The second man takes it and gets out of the car carefully, with some difficulty; he keeps his left arm held stiff and close to his chest, and walks with a slight limp.  
The first man slides his arm round his waist, supporting him. The autumn air is chilly, and the blond shivers, leaning into the embrace.  
The taller man turns his head and nods to the chauffeur, who returns the gesture and drives off into the quiet night.

Sherlock turns back to John, who looks up at him and says with a slight smile "It's bloody cold out here. A few months in the desert and I forget how temperamental London can be."  
Sherlock smiles down at him and replies "Well, then we'd best be getting you inside."  
Taking John's good arm, he leads him carefully up to the door of 221. He finds the key in his pocket and unlocks it, shutting the green door behind them. Once they are safely inside the warmth of the foyer, he helps John to remove his coat before hanging up his own, and then looks at the doctor and says "Ready?"  
John grins. "And waiting."

They go up the stairs to Sherlock's- now _their_ flat, John thinks with a thrill, and step into the parlour.  
It's as cozy and cluttered as ever, and there's a fire crackling in the hearth; _courtesy of Mrs Hudson, no doubt,_ Sherlock thinks.  
When she heard that John would be coming to live at Baker Street, Sherlock recalls, she exclaimed in her motherly way "Oh, Sherlock, dear, it's about time you found yourself a young man! I'll make sure the flat's all ready for when he comes home, lovey, and for heaven's sakes, don't forget to feed him!"  
He smiles fondly at the memory, but John doesn't see; he is moving slowly and steadily round the flat, picking up a book or an artifact here and there, exploring. When he reaches the mantelpiece, he spies the skull and picks it up, looking back at Sherlock.  
He raises his eyebrows. "That's a skull."  
Sherlock shrugs. "Friend of mine. When I say friend...."  
John chuckles. "Right then. You've got a skull on your mantelpiece, books on about twelve different serial killers on your sofa-" "For a case," Sherlock interrupts- "-nine different vials of poison on the coffee table, and is that a _human_ tongue next to the teakettle?" Sherlock nods, looking pleased.

"Anything else I should know?"

At this, Sherlock strides over to the refrigerator and opens it with a flourish. "Those _are_ eyeballs in the crisper, before you ask; there's two kidneys on the top shelf," he says, pointing, "and then there's the _pièce de résistance."_  
He takes something from the middle shelf, and when he turns back to John, he is holding a human head. The eyes stare straight ahead, and there is congealed blood on the left temple; John ought to be disgusted, but instead he only laughs.  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock."  
The detective smiles, clearly pleased. "I call him Carl."  
John shakes his head and rubs his temples, laughing still. "I can tell that living with you is going to be quite an adventure, hmm?"

Sherlock's response is to step closer and kiss him hard on the mouth, before stepping back and saying simply "Yes."

 _And I wouldn't change that for the world,_ John thinks contentedly, leaning up for another kiss.

***

All of a sudden, there is a little rap at the door, followed by a "Coo coo!"  
Mrs Hudson enters the flat, propping the door open with her elbow, as her hands are occupied by a large soup tureen. She seems to be having trouble managing it, so Sherlock quickly relieves her of her burden.  
"There we go, Mrs H," he says, taking the tureen from her and setting it on the table, careful to avoid the ominous-looking black puddle of....something...that is currently occupying most of its surface. Mrs Hudson smiles warmly at him in return before turning to John.  
"You must be John Watson!" she says delightedly. "I'm Martha Hudson, your new landlady- and _not_ your housekeeper, mind!" She shakes a finger at him, but her eyes are kind.  
"Oh, I've heard so much about you, Sherlock never stopped talking about 'John this' and 'John that'"-

"Mrs Hudson, whatever _could_ you be talking about?" Sherlock grins, blushing. He greets her with a peck on the cheek and a squeeze round the shoulders. There's a sweet familiarity between them, almost like that of mother and son, John notes.

"I won't stay long, boys, but I just wanted to meet our new arrival and drop off some supper for the two of you- Sherlock's not very good at remembering to eat on his own," she tells John, "are you, dearie?" This last is directed at Sherlock.  
Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Food is boring. Unnecessary."  
Mrs Hudson shakes her head and "tut-tuts" at him, turning to John and lowering her voice. "He's _far_ too thin, but the two of us, we'll feed him up right."  
John smiles and says "That we will, Mrs Hudson. It's been a pleasure to meet you, and thank you very much for the soup; it smells lovely."  
"Of course, lovey, but remember- just this once." She smiles. "Alright, I'll leave you boys alone, now. Goodnight, Sherlock, dearie, and be careful with John, here. Toodle-oo!" She winks and turns to go.  
John turns to Sherlock and grins. "She's lovely, Sherlock. And she made us supper, too- she's right, you should eat."  
Sherlock sighs, but lets John dish out soup for the both of them, and eats a whole bowl (albeit slowly and with perhaps more dramatic sighs than necessary, but John still feels a sense of accomplishment). 

Later that night, when the wind is whistling round the rooftops and the sky outside is dark and heavy, John relaxes in an armchair by the fire and breathes deeply.  
He loves the flat already, loves the body parts in the fridge and the poisons in the parlour and even the bucket of calf's blood he found in the bathtub- Sherlock called "Experiment" from the kitchen before he even had time to ask.

And most of all, he loves Sherlock, the crazy whirlwind genius that he is. He can't wait for their new life together to begin; a life of adrenaline and danger and desire and flat-out _insanity_ , he is sure, but he knows that he will love every _second_ of it because he'll have Sherlock by his side. 

He closes his eyes and smiles, lost in his reverie, but is interrupted by Sherlock's return to the parlour. He'd disappeared a few minutes ago, blustering off to the bedroom and saying he'd be right there, "with a surprise."  
John had been expecting a number of different things from this statement- very few of them involving clothes, if he's being honest with himself- but what he hadn't expected was for Sherlock to return holding a violin case and bow. He sets them down and goes about opening the case with practised care.  
"You play the violin?" he asks, surprised.  
Sherlock looks up from rosining the bow and says "Yes, since I was nine. Is that a problem?" He is suddenly hesitant, as though this small detail will change everything and John will move out in the morning- but to his relief, John smiles broadly and says "No. Not at all."  
Sherlock looks pleased at this, and once he's finished preparing the instrument he picks it up and balances it gently on his shoulder, beneath his chin. He picks up his bow, takes a breath and looks at John, and then begins to play.

The music is beautiful.  
It's a pretty, lively piece; John doesn't know what it's called or who composed it, but he thinks it's quite excellent.  
The notes jump and dash cheerily, and Sherlock is completely immersed in his playing.  
He doesn't use sheet music, but plays with a natural, elegant ease that clearly stems from years of devoted learning. His eyes are closed as his long fingers pluck the strings, and he moves the bow in sharp, fast strokes; the violin is like an extension of his body. John loves watching him play immediately, and he closes his eyes as well, a smile spreading over his face.

When Sherlock finishes, he opens his eyes and carefully sets his violin down. He looks at John expectantly and asks, almost timidly, "Well? What...what did you think?"  
John opens his eyes and gazes at the detective in awe and admiration.  
"Sherlock, that was.....That was _beautiful._ I don't think I could ever get tired of just watching you play."  
To John's delight, at his words Sherlock flushes delicately, casting his gaze downwards. John thinks with a shock that he probably isn't used to praise of any kind.  
"Thank you. I...I don't play for most people, but you- you...." He trails off, then steps closer to John's armchair and bends so that they are at eye level.

His voice is husky and rich when he speaks.  
"You, John Watson, are _definitely_ not most people."

And John reaches to kiss him, pulling his lover closer and tangling his fingers in his curls.  
John murmurs against his lips- one last thing before they are lost in each other-

"Good."

***

_fin._


End file.
